Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  A smile lifted one side of his mouth, a freakish blend of guilt and defiance. As far as she knew, he’d never before tippled. Why now?

  Why not?

  “They tol’ me … they tol’ me … did you hear ’em?” His words slurred, barely audible, and his head lolled side to side, as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted to look at. Finally he stopped and peered at her.

  What went on behind those eyes? Did he have some sense he was losing control, or had it all been stolen from him at once, like a thief dumping a jewelry chest into a sack? He blinked, pupils wide and deeply black, and then his eyes disappeared. Rolled up fast as the snapping of a shade. He collapsed backward, his skull thudding against the stair.

  Too stunned to move, Miri stood rooted, unable to comprehend the bizarre scene, or what to do about it—her thoughts every bit as ransacked as her brother’s. She matched her breathing to the mantle clock ticking away in the sitting room. A mindless activity, but soothing, giving her time to think.

  One thick snore ripped from Roland, sawing through the quiet. She should probably get him up to his chamber before someone else discovered him. But how?

  Biting her lower lip, she considered the possibilities. She was no match for such dead weight, not even with Mrs. Makin’s help. Bishop Fothergill? He’d cast them out before the magistrate got the chance. And Old Joe lay abed. That left …

  Ethan.

  Ethan sat up, groggy. The bed frame creaked, and the Book of Common Prayer he’d borrowed slid from his chest and landed on the floor. Shadows wavered against the wall of his small room, jerking one way and then another from the guttering candle flame. He ran a hand through his loose hair and yawned. Half awake and half dressed, he must have dozed off while reading.

  A light rapping at his door added to the rattling of the windowpanes from a stiff breeze. Ethan grimaced. Hadn’t Fothergill run him ragged enough for one day? When he’d returned from the village, he’d fully intended to find Miri and speak with her. An urgent need to tell her the truth nagged him—of his part in Will’s death and Thorne’s murder. If she were to shun him because of it, better now than after the rising regard he held for her could not be let go of. Already it might be too late. But the bishop had assigned him one task after another until nightfall. By then, it was beyond seemly to approach her.

  Rap. Rap.

  Sitting motionless, he didn’t so much as twitch. Maybe if he feigned sleep, the fellow would go away.

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  “Mr. Goodwin … Ethan?”

  Miri’s voice, albeit soft and low, jolted through his body. He bolted up, shoved his legs into trousers, then yanked open the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “I wonder if … I mean to say …” She closed her eyes as if relieved to find him there, then suddenly pinned her gaze on his. In the depths of those amber pools, hope surfaced.

  He sucked in a breath, resisting the strong urge to glance over his shoulder and make sure it was he—he alone—that she sought.

  Candlelight added an ethereal glow to her fair skin, making a stark contrast to the shadow that crossed her face. “Would you help me?”

  Help her? He’d go to hell and back for her. All she had to do was ask. He shifted his weight, pushing words past the emotion she stirred. “Of course.”

  “Oh, thank you!” She turned, probably expecting him to follow.

  “Hold on. I’ve not got my boots—”

  “No need,” she called over her shoulder, hastening down the passageway. “In fact it’s better if you don’t. It will be quieter that way.”

  He trailed her silhouette down the corridor. Mystery hung on the night air, perfumed by her violet scent. His bare feet soaked in the chill of the floorboards as he caught up to her. “What exactly am I helping you with?”

  Instead of answering, she pressed a finger to her lips, then sped down the corridor, turned at the next, and finally stopped near the front door. Nodding her head toward the stairway, she whispered, “This.”

  Ethan looked where she indicated, then snorted. “Well, well …”

  He passed by Miri and ascended the first two stairs. Not that he hadn’t seen more peculiar sights in his time, but here? In hallowed walls? He was hard pressed to reconcile the drunken man in the torn nightdress with the arrogant image of Roland when sober. Suddenly the angry outbursts and quirky behavior all made sense. Roland was a drunkard. A sanctimonious, highly educated tosspot.

  “We should get him to his chamber before …” Miri’s words trailed off, but she needn’t finish. If Fothergill found Roland sauced on the stairway, he’d throw him out.

  “You hold the light. I’ll heave him up.” He climbed several more stairs, positioned himself to grasp Roland beneath the armpits, then lifted. Gads! The man weighed at least fifteen, maybe sixteen stone. Putting all his strength into the effort, he strained upward, one stair at a time.

  When they made the first landing, Ethan’s shirt clung damp and cold against the middle of his back, and he paused to catch his breath. Little snores escaped Roland on his inhales. The man was as content as a babe in arms.

  “Is there not more I can do to help?” Miri’s voice was surprisingly calm. Now that he thought about it, her whole manner was calm, as if finding her brother wearing her nightclothes were a common occurrence. Apparently the man’s drinking problem was nothing new.

  “On the contrary”—he flashed her a smile—“this could not be done without your guiding light. Carry on.”

  The next flight of stairs challenged in new ways. His thighs burned, and sweat trickled down his temples as he lugged Roland ever upward. The man really ought to swear off biscuits at teatime.

  Breathing hard, he halted at the top of the third floor. An unspoken agreement passed between him and Miri, for the bishop’s chamber was on this level. Her eyes looked from his, to the candle, then back again, and he nodded. With one small puff, darkness covered them.

  Miri’s rustling skirt and Roland’s occasional snorts were the extent of their noisemaking. Thank God she’d warned him not to put on his boots. As they passed Fothergill’s door, they held their breaths. Her brother did not.

  At that precise moment, Roland sucked in a snore that tore a jagged hole through the silence.

  They froze. Ethan allowed only his eyeballs to move.

  But the bishop did not burst out of his chamber, nor did candlelight show from the gap between his door and the threshold.

  His heart slowly restarted. So did Miri’s swishing skirt. They moved on to Roland’s chamber as a large, incongruous animal—Miri the head, him the guts, and Roland the tail.

  Hefting the man onto his bed took some effort, but they managed to get him atop the mattress with a few grunts. Ethan turned to leave. Roland was sour enough to stomach when sober. If he happened to wake now, who knew what kind of ugly drunk he’d make.

  But the slight press of Miri’s hand on his arm forestalled him. “We should get him into suitable bedclothes,” she whispered.

  He nodded, trying to ignore the thick tension settling over him as Miri gathered Roland’s nightshirt. They stood on each side of her brother. Miri propped, and he tugged. As the gown cleared Roland’s calves and then his knees, Ethan stopped. For all he knew, the man could be as naked as Adam beneath that dressing gown.

  Trying not to make eye contact with Miri, he said, “Leave the room. I can manage.”

  “You cannot do this alone. His arms are like dead eels.” Though she whispered, her determination came through clearly enough.

  “Wait by the door. If I get in a bind—”

  “Don’t be silly. I can help.”

  She simply didn’t get it, which both pleased and irritated. Searching through a mental arsenal, he realized that bluntness was the kindest weapon he could find. “Miri”—he kept his voice low and waited for her to look into his eyes—“if you stay, you may see more of your brother than you wish to.”

  Deep color rose from her neck, and her throat convulsed as she
swallowed. “Oh.”

  He waited until she posted herself at the opposite end of the chamber, her back toward him, before he started yanking and pulling solo. She was right. Roland’s arms were dead eels. Eventually, he stripped off the ruined nightdress and almost hugged the drunkard for having the sense to keep his britches on—until something worse snagged his attention.

  “What in the …” He leaned closer to Roland’s chest. Dark scabs crisscrossed into a pulpy wound. Only once before had he ever seen anything like it, and the reminder made his blood run cold. Either Roland had tangled with a bear, or this man of the cloth fought some very real demons from within. Likely the latter. And if so, how long before his violent tendencies turned outward?

  Ethan quickly redressed him, then, with a nod, guided Miri into the hallway. They retreated on silent feet, padding the length of the corridor. This time when they passed Fothergill’s room, a yellow strip shone from beneath the door. Ethan pressed his hand against the small of Miri’s back, urging her to hurry. It would do neither of them good to be accused of a tryst.

  Either she sensed the same danger or his touch startled her, for she shot ahead and did not stop until they reached the landing on the floor of her chamber.

  When she turned, her vulnerability struck a raw nerve in him, so potent he nearly flinched. “I want you to lock your door this night. Every night. Your brother”—he paused and ran a hand through his loose hair. How to say this?—“suffice it to say that I will rest easier if you do as I ask.”

  Darkness made it impossible to read her expression, yet the quiver in her voice could not be hidden. “You … you won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”

  He curled his hands into fists at his sides, hating the fear that thickened her voice. Men he could fight against, and gladly for her, but how to slay this dragon? If it would do any good, he’d wrap his arms about her and never let go, yet at this point, that might frighten her further. So he simply said, “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “It is not my secrets I worry about,” she whispered. “Good night.”

  She whirled, leaving behind a faint violet scent, and he remained in the shadows until he heard the click of a bolt in the grate at her door. As he retraced the path to his room, he couldn’t help but wonder to whose secrets she referred.

  And how would she feel about his?

  22

  “Watch it! Ye brainless, namby-pated …” Nigel shook his fist in the air as mud splattered him where he stood. The half-witted driver careening in front of him obviously couldn’t hear him above the clankity-clatter of the dray’s iron wheels. A blind-eyed washerwoman could have driven those horses around the mud-holes blighting the street better than that crack-head. Irritated, Nigel scrubbed the sludge from his face harder than he should have, then winced.

  “’Ere you go, mate.”

  Duffy’s voice boomed in his ear. He’d be lucky to make it to past noontide without going deaf around here. Turning, he recoiled from a yellowed handkerchief waving in his face.

  “Gimme that!” He grabbed the cloth from Duffy’s hand. “You’re late.”

  As Duffy recounted one useless detail after another, Nigel took the time to wipe his face properly, adding in a swipe to his neck and ears for good measure. He handed it back, more black now than yellowed. When Duffy pocketed the cloth, a flashy bit of lace floated to the ground.

  “What’s this?” He smacked Duffy’s hand out of the way and held it up.

  “That’s mine!” Red spread up Duffy’s neck and colored his whole face as he snatched it back. “Like I was sayin’, me own puddin’ pie come home last night. Ain’t seen the ol’ girl in o’er a fortnight. That last row we had was—”

  “I don’t give a flyin’ fig about your puddin’ pie. Get on to what I paid you for, man.”

  Duffy’s eyes glazed for a moment, and his tongue worked his lips. Good. Thinking position. The old hedgehog’s wheels were finally turning. At last, he spoke. “Right. Well, I scoured the Old Nichol, just like you said. Didn’t turn up much about Goodwin, I’m afraid.”

  A string of curses unraveled out Nigel’s mouth. “Gimme back my money, Duffy!”

  “Hold on, hold on.” Duffy’s teeth did the working this time. “Now then, like I said, nothing new on ol’ Ethan boy, but I did find out his friend Will has a sister.”

  “What the flippity-flap do I care about some wench—”

  “A sister that lives up Bedfordshire way.” Duffy leaned closer, the smell of sausage and headcheese rank on his breath. “In the country, that is. Just the place to hide out, I’m thinkin’.” He waggled his hedgehog eyebrows.

  “Well, well.” Nigel chewed on that tasty nugget of information. Maybe, just maybe, fate’s perpetual frown was turning into a smile.

  He nodded. “Good job, Duff. You can go on back home to yer puddin’ pie then, eh?”

  Duffy grinned, his cheeks bunching so that it squinted his eyes nearly shut. “Righty-oh.”

  “Think I’ll be takin’ me a little trip north o’ London.” Nigel scratched his chin. Yes siree, just the time to leave behind the blasted city, especially since Buck would come a’callin’ on the morrow.

  Miri lifted her face to the warm breeze and breathed deeply, the smell of moist earth and worms a leftover reminder of an earlier rain shower. She’d have to scrub the bottom of her skirt after this walk about the grounds, but the added chore would be worth the moment spent soaking in the morning’s rays. Though hiding out in Joe’s room had provided much time to think, it was beginning to stifle.

  It was apparent she would not be able to hide Roland’s madness much longer. Witherskim had voiced it, and now Ethan had witnessed it firsthand. She must make plans. But with no money or employment—she couldn’t seriously expect Mrs. Tattler to take on a madman’s sister—what was there to plan?

  Chinnup, chinnup, chinnup, a throaty sparrow admonished her as it sailed overhead, sounding for all the world as if it scolded her to face her situation with a good heart. The bird sailed across the garden and flew to a ball of twigs and fluff tucked beneath the rectory’s eaves. Sheltered from elements and enemies alike, the little bird likely didn’t give a care for its survival.

  Miri frowned at the sky. “Where is my safe nesting place, God?”

  No answer. Not that she expected one … or did she? “Chin up, indeed.” She sighed and cast her attention back to the path.

  Nearing the cluster of rose bushes, she stopped. Some shrubs sent out reddish-brown shoots from their branches, others dark green, but the one she hadn’t finished pruning showed no growth whatsoever. She crouched for a better look. Not a nub of promise dotted its branches. At least she wasn’t the only one God was ignoring, then. The thought did not bring comfort.

  “You look as if the weight of the world is on your shoulders.” Ethan’s deep voice cut into her ponderings as he squatted next to her. “Though I don’t suppose you got much sleep last night.”

  True, fatigue did cloud her concentration, but how had she missed hearing his approach? If she didn’t pull herself together soon, she might easily be rooming with Roland at the asylum. Turning her head, she offered Ethan a wry smile. “Not the weight of the entire world, just this one rose bush. I’m afraid you ought not keep company with me. I’m a murderer.”

  His eyes widened an instant before he leaned forward to focus on the shrub. No further words passed between them, yet she got the distinct impression that she’d somehow indicted him.

  He loosened the dirt at the shrub’s base and poked around with one finger. After a “humph,” his prodding moved upward. Taking care of the thorns, he felt here and there until finally he snapped off the tip of one of the longest branches.

  “My mother kept flowers.” He examined the broken edge, turning it over in his hand. Bringing it to eye level, he squinted, then tossed it aside and faced her. “Give it time. Rose bushes are hardier than you might think. With much patience and God’s care, this one could bloom again.”


  Miri bit her lip, affected by his words more than she’d care to admit. His message brought good tidings for the shrub, but dare she hope it might signify future changes for her barren life as well? Not likely. She stood and smoothed her skirt.

  “You scowl as well as your brother. This ought to lighten your mood, though.” Stepping close—near enough that her breath hitched—he reached out. With the lightest of touches, his palm brushed against the wisps of perpetually loose hair that refused to be captured in her chignon.

  She froze, wondering what he intended.

  “Look.” He drew back his hand and held it up for her to see. A small stone, round and speckled, sat like a jewel in his palm. “Lighter already.”

  She stared, as mesmerized by the deed as by the man.

  He reached again, and she fought to keep from leaning in to his touch—the same rebellious urge that had gripped her last night on the stairway. How could she be so drawn to a man she knew so little about?

  Retrieving another stone from behind her other ear, he said, “Surely you must be feeling lighter by the moment.”

  She swallowed. Oh, she felt all right, but not lighter. More like dizzy. “How did you do that?”

  He cocked his head, half a rogue smile softening his face. She’d not noticed before that he’d trimmed his beard and tamed his unruly hair into a queue at the back. Cleaned up properly, his boyish good looks put Mr. Knight’s to shame. But as he reached again, the muscles rippling beneath his shirt reminded her that this was no boy.

  He produced an additional rock and tossed them all into the air.

  “Why—” Her astonishment turned into a smile as he snatched each one before they hit the dirt and juggled them. When he spun in a circle without losing any, she laughed.

  “Now”—he pocketed the stones with a grin of his own—“that’s better.”

  “And if that would not have made me laugh?”

  “Well, then.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I should have tried all the harder.”

  Perhaps his wink meant nothing. Nevertheless, a shiver tingled through her.